


The wisdom of those who lived

by CLH_CLH



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-22
Updated: 2016-12-22
Packaged: 2018-09-11 03:32:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8952235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CLH_CLH/pseuds/CLH_CLH
Summary: My first attempt at fan fiction! Just a short bit of Sansa and Tyrion fluff seeing as its Christmas. This story takes place in the same universe as 'Highgarden Peaches' which I'm also posting today. Timeline wise this one is first but there's no need to read them in any order. I hope you all enjoy and a special thanks to Tatavi for her encouragement.I own nothing





	

**Author's Note:**

> My first attempt at fan fiction! Just a short bit of Sansa and Tyrion fluff seeing as its Christmas. This story takes place in the same universe as 'Highgarden Peaches' which I'm also posting today. Timeline wise this one is first but there's no need to read them in any order. I hope you all enjoy and a special thanks to Tatavi for her encouragement.  
> I own nothing

Tyrion Lannister could not move. Well, strictly speaking he could have, there was no physical impairment stopping him, it was more that he did not dare. His 9 week old son had spent the best part of the last hour, screaming almost constantly and apparently inconsolably. Much time had been spent, rocking, patting and humming indistinct melodies, finally the babe had calmed and was now fast asleep, his head on his father’s shoulder, his small body splayed across Tyrion’s chest. 

Podrick Lannister was a good baby. At least so Tyrion was assured by the Maester, the nurses, his aunt and his wife. Tyron knew little and less about babies however, he had to admit, aside from this hour or so every evening, his son was generally placid and he rarely heard him cry. About a month ago, Podrick had mastered the art of smiling, and the wide toothless grin seemed almost always on his face when he caught the eye of either of his doting parents. To say Tyrion had lost his heart to his son was practically an understatement. Still more than two months after Podrick’s arrival his father felt his insides melt every time he gazed at his son, much less held him. Indeed, he and Sansa seemed to spend large parts of their days in a sort of exhausted, happy daze. Sansa had insisted that she would feed her son from her own breast. This meant her nights were disturbed with Pod’s need for milk which also lead to Tyrion’s nights being disturbed as he would awake with her, bring her water to drink and read to her or talk to pass the time. He did this gladly, as an expression of how much he loved her and how thankful he felt that she was here with him, loving him too. In truth Tyrion had often been troubled by poor sleep, so he was able to carry out his duties without too much difficulty.

Tyrion stroked his son’s back absentmindedly. The day Podrick had been born was far away from being the worst day of his life but he could not honestly say he looked back on it as the best either. The feelings he felt that day were visceral, raw. Things he kept buried, demons that in recent years he found it easier to let sleep, had all surfaced for him as he waited for Sansa’s labour to reach its conclusion. Of course he had his fears throughout the pregnancy, tempering the joy he had felt at the prospect of having a family of his own, a child, Sansa’s child, born of a love so great that it still brought tears to his eyes to contemplate it. However, on that day as he waited, he had felt consumed by those fears, terrified he would loose, he would have broken her, that thing all the others had failed to do, or that faced with the loss of her he would end up no better than his hated father. 

Sansa had gently asked him not to be present for the early labour, stating it was likely to be a long drawn out process and that she would need him to be strong for her in the last stages, when she actually had to birth the babe. When he entered the birthing room, the look she had given him had been enough for him to swallow his doubts and act strong for her. After what seemed like an eternity but at the same time no time at all, his son was placed on Sansa’s chest, wriggling and pink and completely wonderful. Both Sansa and Tyrion had wept. 

Later when the storm of emotions had subsided, she asked him what name he had chosen for their son and smiled when he told her. “It’s perfect, thank you Tyrion, I love you”. He wouldn’t have chosen a Lannister name for anything, he had loved his uncles and he was sure she wouldn’t have minded really but there was a small part of him which would always be the rebellious son and it did amuse him to imagine his father’s reaction to the heir to Casterley Rock being named after the orphan of a minor house. He would have been happy to name the boy after her father or her late brother but she had deemed this improper. That had made him smile for he loved the fact that she had not lost everything of her girlhood to the terrible traumas she had been through, that she had healed from it all to the extent where she was able to give concern to the proper etiquette of naming children.

Tyrion glanced at the babe in his arms and decided that his sleep seemed sound enough to risk transferring him to his crib. Podrick’s evening distress was usually followed by a period of several hours sleep and as this hour of the evening was the one time his mother’s breast did not seem to soothe him, Sansa generally used this time to catch up on her sleep. Tyrion eased himself slowly out of his chair, walked to the cradle and in what was becoming a practiced movement, placed his sleeping son down. He paused for a moment, marvelling at the perfection of the baby, then headed for his chamber intending to read.

He was pleasantly surprised to find Sansa sitting up awake as he moved through the adjoining door, she looked slightly bleary eyed and rumpled so he had the impression she had only just awoken. 

“So, is our little one sleeping peacefully now?”

“Yes sleeping like, well like a baby”

Sansa gave a small smile and stretched “I’m just about to take a bath”.

Tyrion knew with complete certainty that this was not an invitation. Podrick’s birth had been straightforward, in the past few weeks they had enjoyed several intimate moments together but these had not been without reserve. As always, Tyrion’s utmost concern was for his wife’s wellbeing and he did fear hurting her the first few times they had joined following the birth. His wife had seemed to share something of his concern, they were after all both new to this and though their couplings had been sweet, they had lacked the unrestrained passion which had become characteristic of these activities during the time she was with child. Tyron would have though it impossible for him to desire his wife more than he already did, until he had seen the effect carrying his babe had on her. She seemed to glow with an inner light, he’d constantly yearned to caress her growing belly, to run his hands across her enlarged breasts, to put his hands and lips to her womanhood, which seemed to have become ever more receptive to his ministrations as her pregnancy progressed.

He roused himself from these pleasant musings, and looked up to see Sansa standing naked in front of the dress mirror, twisting her hips from side to side with a frown on her face. She caught his eye for a second and sighed “These look just as fresh as when Podrick was within me. Do you think they will ever fade?” and she indicated the purplish-red lines which now marked her lower stomach. Tyron felt the same emotion he had when she’d vetoed giving their firstborn a northern name and he had to hide a smile. He was quite sure that had Sansa been given the life she deserved, had she left her large, loving family for a strong, gentle and brave husband rather than the viper’s nest of King’s Landing, she would have been proud of her considerable beauty and perhaps just ever so slightly vain. During those tortuous early days of their marriage, he’d had the impression she’d come to view the way she looked as something of a curse and he could only imagine the sensation deepening once she fell into Littlefinger’s clutches. So, he couldn't help but think there was something rather lovely about seeing her concern herself with such a relatively trivial thing, although he would never be so foolish as to make light of it with her.

Instead he approached her standing on the bed so they were of a height, and gently turned her to face him. “Sansa” he said warmly, “Do you remember when we were reunited at Winterfell, I don’t mean the first time we met again, I mean when we reunited fully?”, he waited until she smiled and nodded before continuing “And do you remember what you said to me when asked you if you truly felt you could spend your life looking at my scarred, twisted figure and face?”. Her eye’s were locked with his now and she lifted a hand to brush against his scarred cheek “I said, I love your scars, because they mean you survived.” He gave her a look that was full of love and meaning then pulled her close to him, capturing her lips in a long and tender kiss. When she pulled away he smiled at her, his head slightly on one side. “What a beautiful and wise woman I find myself married to”. Sansa raised her eyebrows “Come now Tyrion, you were always the wise one out of the pair of us” “Hmm I suppose there’s some truth in that, I must have been wise to find myself married to you. Wise, or inordinately lucky.” He was aware of his voice lowering as he spoke, of the heat building within him, likely evident in his eyes and his touch. When he met his wife’s gaze there was a familiar sparkle in her eyes. “It seems your luck has yet to run out. Now, as I said, I’m just about to take a bath.” Tyron knew with complete certainty that this was an invitation. He smirked and proceeded to disrobe and join his wife in her bath.


End file.
